


Full Load

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Earl Harlan deserves nice things, Fluff, Humor, Inappropriate use of a washing machine, Laundry, M/M, Married Life, Romance, Why do I keep writing Cecil with a dirty clothes fetish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1797745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil Harlan-Palmer enjoys doing the laundry.</p><p>Like, he <i>really</i> enjoys doing the laundry. </p><p>[Cecearl. Set in Punkrockgaia's "Eternity!Vale."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Load

**Author's Note:**

  * For [punkrockgaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Eternity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617950) by [punkrockgaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/punkrockgaia). 



**Disclaimer:** I don't even own this AU, let alone WTNV.

 **Author's Note:** Did I just drop everything to write happy Cecearl PWP? Yes. Yes, I did. And do you know why? Because the WTNV fandom needs HELP: Happy Earl in Lots of Porn.

My thanks to Punkrockgaia for allowing me to play in her little Cecearl world! Much appreciation, too, to my beloved Dangersocks for taking the time (if time were a thing that existed, which it isn't) to edit this ridiculousness, as well as my bff Ashleigh for inadvertently inspiring said ridiculousness. Also, for getting me to listen to Reliant K's song "Up and Up (Acoustic)," which has since become my favorite song for this series. (So, like. You should all give it a listen. Just saying.) 

**Warnings:** Sex. Inappropriate use of a washing machine. Set in Punkrockgaia's Eternity!Vale series of stories, and references that source material. I do, in fact, hate myself a little for this fic's title.

  
**XXX  
**

**Full Load**

**XXX**

Earl Harlan-Palmer is smart.

Not "book smart," admittedly— unless his memorizing extensive passages from campfire tomes, wildlife guides, and the Boy Scouts of America manual counts for anything, which he kind of doubts. He's not really "school smart," either, if a lifetime of B-averages had served as any indication of talent. And he's _certainly_ not smart like those egghead scientists who recently moved into town; he'd been _terrible_ at chemistry in 11th grade, and only managed to scrape by with a C+ in biology thanks to all of the dissection units. But.

But.

But if being a scout has taught Earl anything, it is how to problem solve.

And at problem solving, Earl is absolutely brilliant. He can pick out the pieces of a metaphorical puzzle with the same ease that his husband can seemingly snatch the right words from thin air, and that's saying something. (Literally. Cecil really likes to talk.) To that end, it doesn't take Earl a particularly long time to start picking up on the smattering of oddities and enigmatic hints that are figuratively— or, again, _literally_ — dropped in his lap, despite Cecil's best and most awkwardly adorable attempts at hiding them.

"Oh, I... Uh, I'm just really super comfortable standing exactly here and not moving from this particular spot, that's all," Cecil had assured Earl some months back, shifting subtly into the coat that had been draped over the handle bar of the bright blue cart. As they had wandered down the aisle, the radio host's lissome fingers had grown as taut as his thin smile, as well as nearly as perkily fake as the one painted upon the store's beaming logo. Earl had lifted a brow, bemused. Cecil had coughed prissily, the blush on his cheeks nearly as deep as his voice as he'd added, "I mean, it's not like they have any redneck inspired laundry detergent, um, so... Yeah, I totally trust you enough to choose a scent on your own. So, you know. Pick out the one you like. Like, four bottles of it. I have coupons, soooo… Okay?"

"I think I slipped on one of Khoshekh's toys," Cecil had said a few weeks after Walmart, looking more than merely sheepish as he'd glanced up from the floor. Fabric softener pooled around him in viscid, perfumed puddles, seeping all over the hardwood and glistening in a thick sheen upon his husband's hands. It had glistened from a few other places too, in patterns that had seemed more smear than splatter. Earl had been pretty sure that fabric softeners contained no alcohol— and even if they did, he was confident that his husband was not so desperate as to poison himself—, but Cecil's apparent shame had him feeling concerned. Earl googled the ingredients a few hours and a bit of cleaning later, just in case.

(And it was just as well that he did, for he quickly discovered that yes, fabric softeners _do_ contain alcohol, in addition to a bunch of other chemicals that he still doesn't know much about, besides that they had been labeled as "capital-D Dangerous" in that 11th grade chemistry class that he had nearly failed. Horrified, Earl had dumped the remainder of that noxious softer down the drain the next day— to a litany of complaints from Cecil— and a fight had only been avoided by the discovery that vinegar could be used as a substitute for that unnatural swill.

"Isn't it fabulous, Early? Now every day will smell like Easter!" the radio host had chirped, clinging to a gifted Costco jug of vinegar. Earl, not entirely sure how to work out that particular association, had thought it best to simply agree and accept a kiss of thanks. Very passionate thanks.)

And then there had been yesterday.

Yesterday, Earl had come home from a lengthy hike through the mountains and discovered his husband dozing in the loft. This in itself was not overly unusual, though Cecil's general lack of apparel was a bit surprising. That's not to say he was undressed, though. Or, rather, that's not to say that there were no clothes on him. That was the peculiar thing about it, frankly. It almost looked as if all the clothes had been extracted from their closet and dumped across the bed. Cecil, sprawled and satiated, had buried himself beneath a _hamper's_ worth of clothes. When he touched them, Earl had discovered that the towels and sweaters were still clinging weakly to the warmth that the dryer had imbued them with, creating a very cozy heap for Cecil to nap in. Or to do other things in, if the dampness clinging to the front of a pair of underwear meant what the scoutmaster thought it did. And considering all of the evidence piling up like messy jeans, it probably did.

So Earl had considered that evidence. He had considered it with his head tipped in thought. Atop the mattress, the slumbering Cecil had tipped himself, too: huddling and tunneling like a fox in its nest. As he'd turned over, his tangled fist had fallen loose around something long and white. Something thick and woolen, crumpled in a way that the rest of the washing was not. Earl hadn't been overly shocked to find himself plucking up a suspiciously stained sock. It made sense, really. All of it did, in some bizarre way, when taken together. When _pieced_ together. In his eyes, that scrap of cloth looked less like footwear, and more like a final puzzle piece.

"Huh," Earl had said, unfazed, as he'd tossed the sock back into the laundry basket.

It had fallen into place with everything else.

And now it is today.

  
**X**   


"Hey, Ceese? Could you give me a hand?"

"Hmm?" Earl? Back already? That's a bit unexpected. Cecil glances up from the sink and its teeming bubbles, pleasantly disrupted from his evening chores. Keeping his sudsy forearms still, he twists away from his task—and his ongoing reenactment of his favorite deep-sea monster movie— as much as the sloshing water will allow, his fashionably magenta rubber gloves squeaking against the stainless steel of the basin. He can hear Earl clearly, but he can't see him; it sounds as if he'd come through the garage door and stopped in the alcove, for whatever reason. "Is something wrong, Early Bird?" Cecil calls back, flicking absently at the tiny plastic boat floating amongst the icecap foam and dirty cutlery.

"I just need your help with something, if you have a minute."

"Uh…" Cecil's glance returns briefly to the dishes, as if seeking their permission. The plastic plates aren't overly responsive, but the bob of the dinghy seems consenting. How considerate. "Sure, one moment," he gaily returns, shucking himself of his gloves. With care, he places them on the ledge of the sink to dry, then moves to dry his hands, too. Or, at least, to towel off the lingering sensation of wetness. As he dabs between his fingers with the floral fabric of his apron, the radio host shuffles from linoleum tiles to varnished laths, out of the kitchen and into the hall. While rounding the corner that will lead him to the laundry nook, he catches a fleeting glance of the phone and comments, "Oh, darling, before I forget, that weird company called again. They wanted me to tell you—"

The sentence ends in a high pitched squeal. Earl is fairly certain that this is not the message that Cecil had been asked to relay.

"I'm sorry," the scoutmaster says politely, evenly—regarding Cecil with an innocence that is very much juxtaposed by his current state of dress. "Before you forget… what?"

Cecil opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, nearly as wide as the part in Earl's loosened shirt. The starched, sandy material of his uniform is absolutely _caked_ in sludge, the original beige of the fabric lost beneath clumpy blotches of brown. Crumbled bits of filth have formed an earthen crust over the kneecaps of his trousers, and his hems are sopping wet with marsh and mire. How his husband had managed to keep the visible swatches of his freckled skin pale and pristine is a mystery that Cecil lacks the mental capacity to solve at present. He also lacks the coherency. And blood. It—and nearly all intelligible thoughts— have rushed from his head as if a drain had been pulled, or an artery had been cut. He is left to gawp as mindlessly as one of the equally-bloodless bass mounted on the living room wall. One of the real ones, even—not the cute plastic one that sings stupid songs.

"Cecil…?" Earl urges again, his bare toes curling atop the frosty floor. "You were saying?"

"I forget," Cecil rasps, realizing belatedly that blood isn't the only fluid that has run dry. Very dry. There's his mouth, too, and his hands: still knotted in the fabric of his pinafore and tumbling over and over themselves, coiling in close, concentric circles. But where he had before been toweling those hands to cleanness, he now appears to be trying to wring water or life or universal secrets out of the lace-lined cloth. His knuckles are as white as his frills. "I've… Um, you said you needed my help…?" he manages thickly, trying and utterly failing to sound casual. To look nonchalant. To meet Earl's eyes as he speaks.

He does, at least, _hear_ the other's grin.

"Yeah, if you could." Earl gives a movement of his head, as well as one of his hips: spinning enough to show off the extent of the damage. There is a ripped pocket, a torn thigh. The scoutmaster's rear and lower back are messier than a mudslide. Cecil makes a noise at the display— a noise that echoes oddly from a wedged point in the back of his throat. It is gargled, that noise, and decidedly not one of horror, or surprise, or even mild concern over how grubbiness and grime might yet spread to his freshly-cleaned floor. But for all that the noise lacks, it _does_ contain a note of encouragement; Earl heaves a histrionic sigh as he tells the ogling Cecil, "I was out in the yard and slipped on one of Khoshekh's toys."

This, at least, breaks through the fugue. Cecil's stare leaps upward in confusion, long lashes flurrying beneath the furrows of his brow.

"What?" he then snaps, incredulous, and with some modicum of regained eloquence. Shaking his head, the radio host reaches out, deftly nudging sullied buttons from their snares. Earl had already managed the first three; Cecil flushes the same ruddy color as one of his husband's healing sunburns as he makes his way further down that muscled chest. "Earl, dearest, what are you talking about? You know we don't keep toys for Khoshekh, he hates t— shit."

Willowy fingers freeze on the stitch of Earl's top, bright eyes round as dinner plates as Cecil trips over his own lie. Or, perhaps, over the corners of his husband's smirk. It hardly matters. Either way, the man grimaces, knowing he is caught. Literally, as it were: before he can pull back, his wrists are gently captured, the warm embers of his flush stoked into a forest fire.

"You have some weird fetishes, Ceese," Earl chuckles as he brushes his lips to the back of a trembling hand. His husband whimpers, feeble and flustered, only to be quickly reassured, "But I love that you're weird. Oh, don't make that face— I _do_ , baby doll. I love you. And I love that you're gonna help me do the laundry, now that my clothes are such a mess," the scoutmaster adds, his hooded gaze as warm as sunshine as it rises over the mountainous ridges of Cecil's knuckles. His leer gains teeth; his fingertips dance over his husband's fragile wrist, across his blue-tinted pulse point. Cecil's little rabbit heart is going wild within its cage, his breathing as rapid and shallow as Earl's is steady and deep. Earl dusts Cecil's wedding ring with one last kiss before giving their twined hand a tug, forward and down… "Do you think you could get me out of this, please? All of this mud is getting _really_ stiff."

And it's not the only thing, Earl notes with evident delight as his husband scrabbles forward, making quick work of a worn belt. The metal buckle clatters like a bell as it falls against the hardwood, the cracked leather of the strap yanked from its loops with a serpentine hiss. Soon, both Earl's top and his slacks are hanging on by no more than a prayer, clinging to the scoutmaster's contours as much as Cecil's fingertips. His hold is light, reverent. Guiding: his arms curl around Earl like the ribbons of a maypole as he dances around the jut of a soiled hip, stepping over to the washing machine. And Earl does, in fact, feel a bit like he's in strictures, even as his clothes are exuberantly drawn from him. Clods of soil arc through the air like meteors; dislodged pebbles clatter like hail against the floorboards. Cecil twirls away from his beautifully bare husband, intending only to start the load—

"Oh…!"

—but instead, he finds himself trapped between painted metal and other hard things. His rear is cradled by a pelvis; his shoulders bow beneath a chin. A hollow groan resounds from the gaping maw of the washing machine, pitched to match the needy keen that escapes Cecil when a leg lodges between his own.

"E-Early Bird," Cecil moans, his hands scrambling for purchase against the lip of the washer. He braces himself as best as he can, head canted forward to peer into the chockablock clutter of the drum. Set beside the hefty machine, a nearly identical dryer is whirring faintly—its vibrations a ticklish tease that buzz though Cecil's extremities. He quivers, anticipation leaving him sensitive in ways that are growing increasingly apparent, in spite of the helpful cover of his apron. And Earl _knows_. Earl can feel it against his thigh, just as Cecil can feel Earl's leer pressed to the back of his throat.

"So you _really_ like doing laundry, do you?" the scoutmaster purrs, his tone amused and husky. Sultry, each word heavy with a moisture and heat that licks at the inner chambers of Cecil's ear. The slighter man responds with an adorable peep, writhing mutely in an attempt to keep from helplessly giggling.

"I…!" Cecil tries, but cuts himself off with a wanton gasp as Earl begins to grind against him. No—no, not grind. As Earl begins to _slide_ against him: slide in tight, taut bursts of movement, up and down and up and down. The scoutmaster is _not_ grinding, but instead pushing himself to his toes, and then slinking back. Pushing himself to his toes, and then slinking back, curiously picking through the plastic containers that line the shelf upon the alcove wall.

"Tell me, pretty thing," Earl murmurs sweetly, lifting his hips with each lift of a bottle, "which of these scents is your favorite? Is it Clean Cotton that gets you all hot and bothered? Is Ocean Breeze secretly some sort of aphrodisiac? Or— _mmm_ , are your fantasies inspired by the sexiness of Lavender Daydreams?" he lovingly goads, punctuating each choice with a tiny pointed thrust. Cecil whines wonderfully, the neat bow of his apron ties whispering over the grooved muscles of Earl's abdomen. It is tantalizing and terrible and perfect; his husband's smile widens against the humid warmth of Cecil's nape, the slide of his lips as smooth as the palm that slips over the flat of clothed breasts. Calloused fingers catch on the violets and red roses of the apron front, teasing at the raised buds that hide beneath the fabric. His lover cries out again, pressing himself into the sensation as Earl presses violets and red roses of a different sort into the camber of his neck.

"It's… it's not that—!"

"Oh?" Earl croons, managing to impress even himself with how conversational he sounds. With how nonchalantly he pulls the nearest detergent from its ledge. Nestling his chin against his husband's shoulder, the scoutmaster laces his limbs through the brace of Cecil's arms and carefully slops a capful of the aromatic fluid into the appropriate trough. Cecil gulps; Earl can feel the rough drag of it against his cheek as he sets the soap aside. Earl can feel his husband's heart murmur and pound as the washer's lid is closed. And—most potently—Earl can feel the spectacular way that Cecil's entire body tenses, how he tries to scramble away from what he knows is coming, only to find that Earl _won't let him._

"Oh my God, Early—" Cecil starts, but then he is starting in a different way, for a different reason— jolting with the flare and dramatics of one who has been touched by a livewire. He hasn't, of course. The only touch upon him is Earl's, and the only electricity here is contained. It is thrumming through the washer, which has been roused to wakefulness with a dim flicker of light.

"Early Bird, plea— _Jesus_!"

The machine beeps. It sounds like a warning. Or it would, if the radio host could hear it over the rushing in his ears—over the cartwheeling clothes contained in its metal belly. Buttons clatter and screech against the inside of the drum; Cecil's nails do the same over its slippery lid. A rattled warble is jostled from his lips as he is pressed mercilessly against the resonant reverberations. _Pressed,_ locked into place by an arm around his waist, and then wrenched away by the same.

"Is it the dirt, then? I know dirt turns you on," Earl says lowly, playfully, the question nearly a growl as he rolls himself forward. As he rubs, and ruts, and humps against the fuzz of purple sleep pants, driving Cecil rhythmically against the juddering machine. Forward and back, forward and back. The radio host yowls, the oscillations of the washer warping his gorgeous voice into something raw and shuddering.

"N-no… w-well, _yes_ ," he pants, sonorous one moment and breathily pitched the next. Plangent then airy, plaintive and desperate. "Yes, _oh,_ But… _God!_ That's— It's because of…"

"Because of…?" The prompt is gentle, tinged with intrigued. With one arm still digging into the garbed flesh of his husband's stomach, the scoutmaster reaches again for the detergent shelf—grabbing from the shadows a small bottle he'd earlier hidden. With an ambidextrousness mastered through years of scouting, Earl succeeds in single-handedly slicking up his fingers, his left arm still happily trapped within the hinge of Cecil's hips. He shifts himself, if slightly, to allow his oiled digits to slip beneath the elastic border of his husband's pajama bottoms. The pair had lurched forward, then back, now—

This time, Earl pushes with more than just his pelvis. And Cecil, jaw dropping wide, cannot stop himself from sobbing:

"It's because of _you_!"

"…me?" The finger stutters. His body stutters. The washing machine does not stutter, but it does pulsate—throbbing in time to hearts and other turgid organs. Earl marvels at this, at the confession, teetering the line between flattered and bewildered. He cocks his head and crooks his finger, stroking at Cecil's prostate as one might contemplatively rub their chin. The difference being, of course, that this gesture rather chases ideas _out_ of the mind, rather than encourage them to collect. Cecil's knees betray him with a wobble and a wail; he slumps forward, trapped against and pawing at the droning machine.

" _Dammit_ , yes _,_ oh, _God yes,_ it's _you_ , Early, it's…! It's y- _you_ —!" Cecil howls, thighs spread and rear angled and the whole of him convulsing, jerking, wanting desperately to fuck himself forward, to allow the washer's decadent quaking to shake him to pieces— but also _needing_ to shove himself away, to buck back roughly and wildly, to impale himself on that— _those_ —fingers, fingers which are so exceptionally skilled at taking him apart. In the end, he is unable to do anything but allow himself to be manipulated. One slender hand reaches back to knot in the mussed curls of Earl's hair; the other claws eager welts into his lover's side. Shamefully submissive, Cecil's head falls back as his hips jump forward, piloted by the pistons of unseen fingers, and he can do nothing but close his eyes and ride it out.

"Y-You're al… _ah!... always_ such a _mess_ , baby, I'm— h- _hah_ , d-doing your laundry c-constantly. _Oh!_ S-so much of it," he puffs, valiantly trying to offer an explanation in exchange for unbelievable pleasure. That pleasure only intensifies as Earl hums to show he's listening, a response that his husband feels more than hears. "It— It _smells_ like you _,_ Early, _hngh_ —the laundry! Th-the clothes, they… When they're dirty, wh-when there's the m _mmm_ mud and the p-pine sap and the s-swe _—! Again!_ Oh, sweetheart, _please,_ there _, agai— Fuck_! _Oh_ , oh, the _dirt_ , it's like… It's like when you c-come home to me— and then! _Then!_ A-after they're washed— oh, Earl, _Earl_ , I am s-so close, so _close_ , _so_ — _oh,_ a-after the c-clothes are all n-nice and clean… _God_ , it's like you're back, after your b-bath, and we _cuddle_ , it smells like that, and I— I _love_ it, I love _you,_ I _can't stand it! I can't—!_ Earl, I—!"

"You _can_ ," Earl soothes, peppering kisses down the cords of Cecil's throat. His muscles have stiffened. Everything has stiffened. Cecil feels about to snap, to burst into galaxies of stardust, and that's okay, that's _perfect,_ that's— "You can do it, babe. I've got you."

" _Ah—!"_

That's all it takes. That's all it takes, and Earl's husband is coming—hot and heady and so extraordinarily hard that pearls of sticky whiteness are beading through the material of his severely disheveled apron, dripping like nectar and pollen from the flowers. Knees buckle, a voice breaks; Earl keeps his promise, cradling Cecil against his chest when the slighter man bonelessly collapses, puffing and panting and pink in the face. Oversensitive and spent. The washing machine rumbles on, barely halfway through its load, but now that Cecil has spilt his, neither pay it any further attention. Instead—with a flourish and grace that would make any street magician jealous—Earl pulls a warmed blanket from the mouth of the adjacent dryer and loosely bundles his trembling husband within its softness. He then properly hefts the kittenish Cecil into his arms, careful not to trip on the trailing tail of the coverlet as he waddles them both into the nearby living room.

"Mmm…" Cecil makes a contented little noise as Earl lowers himself atop the couch, and he in turn is lowered atop of Earl. The leather upholstery is not the only thing to groan as the radio host is hugged close— as Earl caresses his sodden cheek and lavishes his husband with quiet praise. As he comments on the feel of Cecil's erratic aftershocks, and how he prefers them to the buzz of anything motorized. How he prefers Cecil to anything, period. How much he loves him.

" _Mmm_ ," Cecil says again, ruddy cheeked as he burrows against the bare of Earl's torso, lithe fingers fanned out like his lovely, lowered lashes. "Oh, Early Bird, that was… _God_. I love you, too, baby. And I owe you one," he realizes with a touch of guilt, an unsteady palm slipping over the glassy smoothness of sweat-slicked abdominals—

Only to be caught, much as before, tenderly around the wrist.

"You don't owe me anything, ever," Earl admonishes in a murmur, trapping that wandering hand by lacing his fingers through it. It is forced to remain innocently atop his stomach, an overlaying warmth that the scoutmaster appreciates as much as Cecil does his freshly laundered mantle. The radio host snuggles equally into his husband and the threadbare scarlet fleece, connecting the constellations of Earl's freckles with a series of kisses.

"Let me rephrase," Cecil says then, in a tenor as wickedly rich as melted chocolate and just as promisingly sweet. Earl feels a bit like candy as his husband gives his ear a nibble, cooing, "I _want_ to give you one. I want to give you the most magical and mind-shattering orgasm you have yet experienced, darling. I want to do that very much. I want to do that multiple times, in multiple ways, and possibly in multiple places around our house. And I _want_ to do it now, but… First, I think, I need some time to recover from what you've done to me." Cecil simpers, teasing.

Earl blinks, remembering.

"Oh!" the scoutmaster then exclaims, perking up. Literally, as it were. Straightening a touch from the slump that he and his husband have fallen into against the armrest, Earl reaches blindly for something on the lampstand behind him. Cecil, mildly startled by the sudden movement, blinks owlishly. Curiously. "I bought you something that might help with that."

"Is it doe urine?" the radio host guesses, with an over-the-top enthusiasm that his lover cheerfully mirrors.

"No! Even better!" Earl singsongs, finally trapping what he'd been searching for and lifting it over his head. The hefty glass jar is placed nimbly atop his breast, resting directly beside Cecil's fingertips and positioned so that its label is proudly on display. It's a candle, ivory colored, and decorated with a picture of pale sheets upon a line. _Yankee Candle,_ it reads. _Clean Cotton._ "It's classy, right?" Earl prompts, dexterously working off the jar's stoppered lid. That mission accomplished, he uses a series of exaggerated movements to waft the candle's delicate aroma under his husband's nose, bragging, "Not redneck at all, I wager! I mean, I found it at _Target_."

Cecil stares. Openly. Coolly. In an instant, his expression has fallen as flat as his tone.

"…I did not think it was possible to simultaneously love and hate a person so much," he finally deadpans, lips twitching at the corners in a display of colossal restraint. Earl, conversely, is smirking like an absolute maniac, seemingly on the verge of childish snickers as his gift and his arm are both given a shove.

"Okay, but is it helping?" the scoutmaster inquires ingenuously, expressive and adoring. Unresisting as Cecil continues to nudge at the candle, directing it towards the carpet. At his wordless command, the jar is abandoned there. Its cap, too. But it does seem worth noting, Earl thinks, that though the radio host _also_ chooses where said cap is left to lie, he does not decide to put it back where it belongs. Instead, he rather pointedly tosses it across the room. Earl chuckles, nuzzling the nape of the man half-draped atop his torso. "Are you ready to be done like the laundry, baby?"

Cecil does not dignify such a question with a response.

But then, the immediacy with which he rolls fully atop his husband is probably answer enough.

  
**XXX**   


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